Chapter 17 - The First ShotThe black armored SUV rolled to a halt in the center of the compound’s courtyard. The heavy steel gates clanged shut behind it, sealing the fortress.
Inside the sniper hide, three hundred yards away, I exhaled. A slow, measured breath that emptied my lungs and steadied my heartbeat. I peered through the high-powered optics of the .50 caliber rifle.
The doors of the SUV opened. Four men stepped out. Three were standard private military contractors—heavily muscled, wearing plate carriers and carrying customized assault rifles.
But the fourth man was different.
He didn't wear bulky armor. He wore a lightweight tactical rig over a tan combat shirt. He moved with the fluid, hyper-aware grace of a predator checking its surroundings. He didn't look at the compound walls; his eyes immediately scanned the distant desert ridgelines.
The Bloodhound.
Hector, Cortez’s head of security, walked out to greet them. I watched their lips move through the scope. Hector pointed toward the desert. The Bloodhound nodded, reaching into the SUV to pull out a massive, scoped designated marksman rifle.
He was getting ready to hunt.
I adjusted my windage dial two clicks to the left to account for the slight crossbreeze kicking up dust off the desert floor.
I settled the crosshairs directly over the engine block of the black SUV.
Squeeze.
The .50 caliber rifle didn't just fire; it detonated. The recoil punched into my shoulder like a sledgehammer, but the heavy bipod kept the weapon anchored.
Before the crack of the gunshot even reached the compound, the massive armor-piercing round slammed into the front grill of the SUV. It tore through the reinforced steel, shattered the engine block, and ignited the fuel lines in a catastrophic fraction of a second.
The explosion was deafening.
The front half of the SUV vanished in a ball of orange fire and twisted metal, sending the three mercenaries flying across the courtyard like ragdolls.
The Bloodhound, possessing the sheer instinct of a tier-one operator, had dove behind a concrete planter a split-second before the blast. He rolled, bringing his rifle up, scanning the ridge where my muzzle flash had originated.
He was fast. But he was fighting a ghost.
I didn't wait to see if he spotted me. I racked the heavy bolt of the .50 cal, ejecting the smoking brass casing, and chambered another round. I swung the barrel toward the compound’s primary power generator, a massive industrial unit sitting near the eastern wall.
Boom.
The second round pierced the generator’s fuel tank. A shower of blue sparks erupted, followed by a secondary explosion that instantly plunged the entire compound into dead silence.
The alarms died. The security cameras went black. The floodlights shattered.
It was high noon, but inside the minds of the sicarios scrambling across the courtyard, night had just fallen.
"Positions!" Hector screamed, his voice carrying over the desert wind. "He’s on the ridge! Suppressive fire!"
Dozens of sicarios rushed the walls, unleashing a torrential downpour of automatic gunfire toward the ridgeline. Bullets chewed up the sand and shattered the rocks fifty yards to my left. It was a panic response—a massive waste of ammunition against an enemy they couldn't even see.
I abandoned the .50 caliber rifle. Its job was done.
I pulled my suppressed MP7 from my back and drew my tactical knife. I slipped out of the camouflage netting and began moving rapidly down the canyon, using the natural rock formations as cover.
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They were focused on the ridge. They were bracing for a sniper duel.
They didn't realize I was already at their front door.
